


Maintenance Cycle

by TigerDragon



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Armor Kink, Co-workers, Dirty Talk, F/M, First Order Problems, Hate Sex, Masks, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerDragon/pseuds/TigerDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Phasma maintains all of her weapons and tools for peak performance. Unfortunately, not all maintenance can be performed alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maintenance Cycle

The First Order Star Destroyer _Finalizer_ moved through the cold dark of space like the jagged tip of an enormous arrow, a silent promise to a galaxy suffering under the negligent disorder of the Republic and the rotting ruins of the old Empire that the future would not be left to the weak and uncertain stewardship of its present masters. That true peace and order would be restored to the galaxy.

On the most difficult days, the days when her young charges seemed to least understand the mission ahead of them and most riddled with inconvenient relics of their old barely-remembered lives, Captain Phasma found the great bulk of the _Finalizer_ reassuring and the immaculate, starkly-lit corridors an inspiration to aspire to. Eventually, one day, the First Order would bring the kind of perfection _Finalizer_ represented to all the worlds of what had once been the Old Republic. Until then, Phasma would do her own duty to bring that future into the present.

Just as the _Finalizer_ ’s systems required constant maintenance, so too did the legion of Stormtroopers entrusted to Phasma’s personal care. The defective components had to be removed, those that were workable but flawed repaired to make them part of the smoothly functioning whole, and even the best had to be honed and sharpened to maintain their fighting spirit and tactical skill. It was the work for which she had been chosen, and she flattered herself that she excelled at it. Indeed, her present training cadre was coming along very well with the exception of FN-2187. It was difficult when such valuable potential and leadership skill came paired with such unsuitable softness - the First Order did not have the resources to do what the Empire might have done and discard a flawed but useful instrument and replace it with a better one. He might eventually prove too weak to allow to continue in the Order’s service, but for now there had been no actual infraction - only the shadow, the hint of an unexpressed flaw. For now, she would continue forging him. She had enjoyed success with others before him.

Personnel, of course, were not the whole of her responsibility. Doctrine had to be evaluated and equipment maintained in perfect condition. Even her own armor and weapons, which she insisted on cleaning, testing and repairing herself, required her attention; her own body, inconvenient as it sometimes was, had to be maintained.

Food and sleep and physical training were, fortunately, predictable - much like a blaster cleaning, they had to be performed on a regular schedule based on use. Other needs were more like the electronics in her helmet - likely to go unnoticed until a failure became severe enough to interfere with her functionality.

It was a small point of pride with her that she was one of the two personnel aboard _Finalizer_ with the command codes to enter Kylo Ren’s personal command and meditation suite without awaiting permission. Considering that the other so honored avoided doing so as often as possible for his own reasons - and that General Hux notably ranked her as well - it was a satisfying mark of her standing in the First Order. Not that standing was a primary objective of her work for the Order, of course, but it could be both pleasant and very useful to have. She turned off of her usual midday patrol of the main ventral passage at the appropriate junction, noting with satisfaction that her pace did not vary from the regulation mark she preferred to maintain, and passed her gauntlet over the security pad beside the door without ceremony. It recognized her and hissed open to admit her, and closed with acceptable promptness behind her.

The primary room was lit only by the computers arrayed to one side and the starlight spilling through the viewports. Her optics adjusted accordingly. She came to a sharp, parade-ground attention and waited.

Kylo Ren sat cross-legged facing a blank section of hull, fists resting on his thighs. He remained still and silent for a dozen heartbeats.

“Phasma,” he greeted her at last, still staring at the wall. If she had been there for a different reason, he would have used her title. He always knew why she had come to talk to him. The Force, she supposed, or perhaps just good deductive reasoning. It pleased her each time, privately, that she wouldn’t have to explain. It was efficient.

Unfolding his hands and his legs, Kylo Ren stood, robes swirling around his long, powerful limbs. Her own reaction to the sight of him in motion was the first malfunction she’d noticed.

He’d noticed it, too. It was very convenient that her problem came bundled with the solution.

The first things he removed were his gloves. She watched the strength and grace of his hands as he did so, glad that he wasted neither time nor motion but wasn’t needlessly hasty, either. They had the time required.

His wide belt fell away at a touch, and he shrugged out of the robe and tunic. The faint light clung to his pale skin, the planes of his muscles, adding speed to her breath and pulse and heat to her skin. She went to one knee to set her weapons down without risking damage to them, removing them without the need to watch her own hands, taking in the lines of him with bittersweet pleasure - they were beautiful, but they lacked the harsh loveliness of his robes. It was both necessary and unfortunate that they each had to remove the most truthful pieces of themselves to satisfy these particular needs, but it was not without its compensations.

He was watching her too, now, and his hands slowed on the waist of his trousers as she unlatched her vambraces and slid each of her gauntlets off. The boots were next, the decking cool under her feet where the bare skin touched it, and then the rerebraces and thigh armor required taking her eyes from him for a moment - not that she needed to see what she was doing, but that the catches were sufficiently complex that any distraction would prolong the process unnecessarily. The clasps for her torso armor hissed softly when she released them, a sound that was beginning to take on associations in combination with silence that drew heat up into her cheeks - her own quarters, near the hangar bays on _Finalizer_ and the critical power systems on Starkiller base, were never this quiet.

Her eyes flicked up and caught his bare fingers at the edge of his helmet, then dropped away again. The first time he had removed it in her presence had taken her by surprise, baring the pale skin and fair lines of the face beneath to her gaze, and it had been unpleasant how the sight of him had drawn excitement from her body. It was a lie, that face, and she did not wish to see it when she thought of him.

She removed her own helmet, careful with the security clasps, and without its optics the room was dark as space and Kylo Ren was a shadow against the stars. Her jaw relaxed and her breath came out of her cleanly as she pulled her torso armor up over her head, unlocked the armor around her hips and set it aside as well before simply peeling the bodysuit off and letting it drop.

That was much more suitable.

He’d dispensed with the rest of his clothing by the time she’d finished, and his hands were roughly pulling her to him before the suit had finished settling. He kissed sharp and messy and hot, pulling her into the maelstrom of himself, prying her open with each gasp and bite and lick in her mouth.

“You hate it so much,” he whispered reverently into her throat. “That you need this.”

She snarled into his hair, her hands weaving into the dark silk of it and tightening until she knew it hurt him. That was not unsatisfactory for either of them. “It distracts me from my duty. It tempts me toward softness with some of my students. It makes me less effective. It is a weakness.” She dragged his head back up to hers by brute strength and kissed him again, forcing his mouth open with her tongue as savagely as a breaching charge and shoving the hardness of her body against the whip-smooth suppleness of his. Allowing herself to feel the frustration and the rage of that admission only made the throbbing pounding in her chest that echoed in her head and her belly beat louder.

His moan rumbled through both their chests as he pushed the hard heat of his cock against her hips, hands moving to her thighs and rear. “Yes, good, your rage is perfect,” he hissed, pulling her up off the floor. Two long steps had her back against a wall, and he was letting her sink down onto him with agonizing slowness. It was infuriating. Not that she had expected otherwise.

She struck him just under the shoulder with the flat of her hand, shifting his balance and slamming her the rest of the way down him, and she buried a savage shout in his throat with her teeth as she clenched her legs around the almost girlish slimness of his hips and ground herself against him. It was something he permitted - she’d seen him in battle and had no illusion she could move him unwillingly - but the release of emotion when she struck him was still almost as sharp a pleasure as the friction of the hard smoothness of him inside her. As the dark thundering weight of his power that she could feel around her like an unspent storm.

He surged forward, pinning her against the wall with his cock as he thrust into her over and over, a litany of filthy praise hissing into her ear: “Yes, yes, you’re so cold and clean and hard and you still need this, still need to fuck like any animal, still need me to fuck you and you hate it, you hate me so much and it’s so beautiful, your fury is gorgeous, I could fuck you for days and still want more, fuck, Phasma, so good, never change, always hate me and this and us together...” and then he broke off and could only grunt and moan, only hold her fast to the wall with his arms, hard enough to bruise, his power lashing uncontrolled around them and leaving a strange buzz under her skin where it touched her. She closed her eyes and dug her nails into his hair, into the smooth skin of his back, clenched her legs around him until she could hear air being forced from his lungs by the pressure. The hot, liquid joy of that power was dark as the void as it pulsed inside her, in her blood and behind her eyes and in the clenching fury and urgency of her body, and she bit down on his shoulder until she tasted blood because some vestige of training wouldn’t permit her to scream. To admit, even to him, that she was something softer than chromium and plasteel.

For one shuddering moment, she wanted that dark fire more than the clean perfection of her duty and she loathed him for that betrayal - that failure of the one piece of equipment she could not have reissued to her.

At exactly the height of her bitterness, his hands tightened on her body and he groaned his release into her skin, cock throbbing and breath heaving. Several objects she hadn’t noticed being in the air fell to the decking.

Several moments later, he loosened his hold on her and pulled back. One of his hands lingered on her hip.

Then he returned to the place he had been sitting when she arrived. She supposed that clothing probably was irrelevant in meditation, and the load of endorphins presently disrupting her brain chemistry made it difficult not to appreciate the way the starlight caressed his skin. It was an indulgence she only permitted herself for a further few breaths, until she was certain of the steadiness of her knees, and then she excused herself from his presence without comment to wash the evidence of their fraternization from her skin. By the time she was finished cleaning herself, there was barely a twitch of temptation to glance at his still-bare skin while she replaced her armor in its proper configuration. It was easy to resist.

Continuing her work with him would no doubt produce further malfunctions eventually, but there was no reason to shorten the maintenance period unnecessarily with staring. She checked to be sure that her chrome skin was properly in place and her weapons ready for use if needed, then signaled the door open to return to her patrol.

The rest of the day would be extremely productive. They always were.


End file.
